


friend in need

by ataxophilia



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Drunkenness, Friendship, Gen, hawkeyes gotta look after their own, kate looking after clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:56:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataxophilia/pseuds/ataxophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint looks up at her, blinking, then down at the floor, and nods slowly. “S’a horrible floor,” he agrees, sounding a little sad. And then he honest to god pats the linoleum next to his hip. Kate raises an eyebrow and abandons the shopping to pad over to him. “I don’t know why I spend so much time here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	friend in need

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in love with Fraction's Hawkeye series. Kate and Clint's friendship is my life blood. 
> 
> Unbeta'd.

"Oh, wow," Kate says, pausing in the doorway with one hand on the lightswitch and the other holding up a bag of groceries, because if she doesn’t get fresh food into Clint’s flat then no one does, and too much junk food makes him grouchy. Then, because it doesn’t feel like enough of a reaction, she repeats herself, adding extra emphasis in the way that only teenage superheroes can. " _Wow_ , Clint.”

Clint, slumped in a sad little heap on the floor by the wall, makes a noise that could be a groan or could be a death rattle. Kate’s not sure which is worse, so she pretends she didn’t hear it and makes her way into the flat. 

It’s a mess, which is hardly new, since Clint is apparently incapable of cleaning up after himself on a good day. Today, Kate’s super-sharp detective skills (also not new) and the truly impressive number of bottles scattered around Clint (which are new) tell her, is not a good day. “Why’re you on the floor?” she asks, dumping the bag in the kitchen. 

"S’a nice floor," Clint slurs, which, ew, no. 

"It really isn’t," she tells him, wrinkling her nose. She’s not entirely sure Clint’s floor has been cleaned at all since he moved in. "Even Lucky won’t eat off the floor here, and he’s a dog. Like, eat-food-out-of-the-trash dog."

Clint looks up at her, blinking, then down at the floor, and nods slowly. “S’a horrible floor,” he agrees, sounding a little sad. And then he honest to god pats the linoleum next to his hip. Kate raises an eyebrow and abandons the shopping to pad over to him. “I don’t know why I spend so much time here,” he adds. He’s still watching the floor, so Kate assumes he means on the floor specifically, not just in his flat. It’s a little reassuring, because Clint loves his flat, and she’d be worried if he ever said he didn’t, but also not because, well, it’s not exactly healthy for a grown man to spend copious amounts of time curled up on the floor.

"Might have a little something to do with your good friend Jose over here," she says, crouching down next to an empty bottle of tequila. Clint doesn’t even smile, just sighs tiredly and waves the bottle currently in his hand at her. "Right," she drawls once she’s recognised the label. "Jack too. Funny."

"I’m a funny guy," Clint says, his head dropping back against the wall.

It’s not funny, though, not even a little. Kate’s seen Clint in some pretty bad states, mostly involving bullets as well as alcohol, but she’s never seen him look so blank. She’s got no idea what could leave him quite so drained of everything that makes him Clint, or get him drinking his way through seven or eight bottles in the three days since she was last round. It’s fucking terrifying, is what it is.

Kate sighs and sits down, folding her legs and dropping her hands into her lap. “You’re a mess,” she says. "What's up?" Clint snorts, so she adds, “Okay, you’re more of a mess than usual. Question still stands.”

For a long, long moment, Kate is sure Clint isn’t going to answer. He fixes his eyes on his bottle of whiskey and presses his lips together, but just as Kate is starting to consider getting back up and putting the milk she brought away, he says, “It’s May fourth.”

It takes her a second, but then Kate understands. Last May fourth, Clint disappeared with Natasha for a week and came back with scraped up knuckles and a tension that didn’t leave his shoulders until mid-June. Kate didn’t ask, and Clint didn’t tell her anything, but this year - this year he’s alone in his flat and Kate’s kind of attached now. This year, she asks. "The battle of New York?"

Clint pulls a face, rubs a hand over his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, and then, “Yeah, fuck.” There’s a beat, and then he looks over at Kate. “Shit, Katie, you don’t- I’m sorry, I’m a mess, you’re right, but you don’t have to stay here and deal with me.”

He only slurs on a couple of words. Kate’s impressed despite herself. If she had as much alcohol in her as he does, she’d be passed out somewhere unfortunate right about now, not waving off emotional support. “Don’t be a dick,” she tells him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His shoulder slump forward at that, and Kate realises she’s just done something very right without meaning to at all. “Hey,” she says, leaning forward to prod at Clint’s arm until he looks up at her. “You know you’re not alone, right? I mean, you’re kind of a jerk, but you’re not- you’ve got friends.” Clint watches her blankly, but it’s the old familiar blankness that Kate knows is just guardedness, so she powers on. “Nobody secretly hates you for what happened, y’know. We’re not all just- waiting for a chance to up and leave you.”

She digs her teeth into her bottom lip, unsure what else she can say to convince Clint that she’s being serious, but Clint flashes her a crooked smile before she can blurt anything else out, and says, “Awww, Katie.” 

It’s not quite his usual snark, but it’s the closest she’s seen to her Clint since she walked in. 

"Asshole," she says, swatting at his arm, and then wrinkles her nose. "You stink. Go take a shower or something. Brush your teeth. I’ll make you some coffee." At his hopeful look she sighs and adds, "And I’ll call for pizza." She pushes herself up to her feet, grimacing at the floor once she’s upright. "C’mon, Barton. Maudlin-drunk time is over. Up and at ‘em, and all that."

She holds out a hand, one eyebrow up, and waits quietly until Clint groans, unfolds himself, and takes it. “Pizza,” he reminds her, and she rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, and coffee, I’m on it. Now get. You’re making me want to vomit."

The bottles are gone when Clint reappears, and there’s fresh coffee and pizza from his favourite place in the kitchen. Kate’s already curled up on his sofa, the TV turned to some trashy sitcom, a slice of pizza in her hand. 

Clint doesn’t say anything when he drops down next to her, or while they’re making their way through the rest of the marathon, but when Kate stretches and tells him it’s time for her to get gone, he rubs at the back of his head and says, “Look, Katie.”

That’s as far as he gets before Kate interrupts. “You’re a good guy, Clint. You just gotta stop forgetting that.”

"Thanks," he says, smiling faintly, and Kate shrugs. 

"You’d do the same," she replies.

He looks like he feels more human now than he has for the last few days. Kate’s proud, but more than that she’s relieved, and when she mock-punches his shoulder and he laughs, her chest lightens a little bit more. 

"I’m glad you’re feeling better," she tells him, then knocks on the doorframe and says, "See you, Hawkeye," before he can stumble his way through another thank you.

"Yeah," he says, his smile a little wider, a little more wry. "See you, Hawkeye."


End file.
